Appetite for Appeasement

“When you practice some appetite-denying discipline to better concentrate on God, don’t make a production out of it.  It might turn you into a small-time celebrity but it won’t make you a saint.  If you ‘go into training’ inwardly, act normal outwardly.  Shampoo and comb your hair, brush your teeth, wash your face.  God doesn’t require attention-getting devices.  He won’t overlook what you are doing; He’ll reward you well.”

Matthew 6:16-18, The Message 

I did not grow up in the Episcopal Church, but I knew what Lent was.  Lent was that time when you “gave up something”; my best friend was a Catholic and I observed this piety in action every spring.  The first time I attended a worship service in the Episcopal Church was the first Sunday of Lent so I really didn’t get into the discipline of denial until my second Lent.  I pondered what would be the right thing to give up that would cause me to pause and reflect on Christ’s sacrifice and…it had to be chocolate.  I confess:  chocolate is something that caused me to stop and savor.  I was determined to follow the guidelines for fasting that the Ash Wednesday passage from Matthew that is read that day: “Go about your business, keep it quiet, and don’t call attention to yourself, whatever you choose,” (my paraphrase).

So, I began.  I worked hard at not making a big deal of my chosen discipline, but I suppose I didn’t succeed. Somehow it was observed that I was abstaining from chocolate.  I was a high school teacher, and once the word was out, I was bombarded by students who wafted candy bars, drank hot chocolate and offered many gooey temptations. It was agony.  The day that the speech team went to an ice cream parlor for celebration after a successful tournament was the low point:  nineteen hot fudge sundaes and one Dutch apple.  I thought Lent would never end.

But on Easter morning (at 6:30 am after a late Easter Vigil!), there was a knock on my door.  

Who in the world was interrupting my sleep? On my doorstep stood three of my speech kids with a veritable chocolate feast in hand:  brownies, fudge covered graham crackers, Oreos, chocolate milk.   I knew one of them threw up every time he consumed chocolate, and he did so as they drove away to prepare for church.  Nevertheless, they showed their love and respect by honoring me, as well as the Risen Christ, that morning long ago.

I have not given up chocolate for Lent since then; I don’t eat it that often now and it doesn’t seem to be sacrificial enough. “Appetite denial” implies food to my mind but I do give up biting my nails; believe me, it stops me in my tracks when I realize that I’ve started to nip one off.  These days I try to follow the path that Eugene Peterson’s translation suggests: wash my face, comb my hair and get on with doing something positive. This year I think I’ll take on contemplative knitting; with every inch that I knit on a blanket I will pray a myriad of intercessions and thanksgivings with special prayers for a baby that is coming into the world this Eastertide. Whatever practice you choose, know that God “won’t overlook what you are doing; He’ll reward you well”. 

—The Rev. Kay Boman-Harvey

All Saints Episcopal Church, Miami

The Year-Long Lent

In our religious tradition around this time of year, we ask each other, “What are you giving up for Lent?” The answer may be chocolate, or adult beverages, or coffee. Maybe we add a new practice like daily prayer or reading scripture. We look for ways to enrich our spiritual lives, both by subtracting things and adding things.

This season, the world has imposed a nearly year-long “Lent” on all of us. We have given up having coffee with friends, going to the movies, eating in restaurants, even going to church. We have added the practices of hand-washing, masking, and social distancing. We have had to learn new ways to work and to worship. An almost monastic isolation has been imposed upon us, as we are atomized into family groups and individual homes.

The word “Lent” itself comes from the old English “lencten,” which means “spring season.” Even during a normal year, the austerities of Lent are played out against a background of the greening of the world and the emergence of buds and flowers. Nature itself offers us the promise of a coming end to the dark and cold.

So it is, too, with our year-long “Lent.”

There is a promise that we are beginning to emerge from this long time of the discipline that has been imposed on all of us by the pandemic. We have all experienced “on-the-job training” so to speak, in many aspects of life. Public health practices—which we had never thought of a year ago—are now part of our daily routine. Even the least technologically savvy among us have learned to use Zoom, and help our children with online learning.

Now there are signs of a new, hopeful flowering. Vaccines are finally available, and may soon be in greater quantities. Warming weather may soon make it possible to gather in parks and on front porches with our friends.

Whether or not this year of Lent has been a spiritual journey is up to each of us, individually. We can reflect on what we have learned about ourselves, and about our relationships to God and to each other. We have had to come to a different relationship with our church home. What has that meant to us? How have we used our time alone and with our families? How have we been affected by illness and death of those around us? If we have experienced COVID-19 ourselves, how has it changed us? Are we changed for the better by these challenges?

My hope for each of us is that we emerge healthy and more spiritually aware from this Lent that the world has offered us.

—The Rev. John Borrego

St. John’s, Norman

To Be, or Not to Be Love

Considering the exile and sacrifice we have faced since Lent last year, Lent seems to have never ended. This pandemic, and the pressing of social justice issues and political unrest to the forefront, has pulled back the curtain to reveal who we all are—and how much the world is absent of genuine love for our neighbor. We have seen it, felt it, and struggled with it.  What greater discipline, then, is there for Lent than love?  I think it is quite obvious that Agape love and Christian charity can be hard, and often go against our instincts.  It is hard to respect the dignity of someone we don’t agree with, or even someone who has done nothing to earn or deserve that respect.  Yet, somehow, I believe that is what our faith calls us to do.  That love isn’t so much about what they do, but what we do. Loving our neighbor is easy when it’s appreciated, deserved, or encouraging; but Jesus made it clear that following Him was not going to be the easiest journey, by our human standards.  In his Sermon on the Mount, Jesus spoke of both retaliation and love for our enemies: 

“You have heard that it was said, ‘You shall love your neighbor and hate your enemy.’  But I say to you, Love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you, so that you may be children of your Father in heaven; for he makes his sun rise on the evil and on the good, and sends rain on the righteous and on the unrighteous. For if you love those who love you, what reward do you have? Do not even the tax collectors do the same?  And if you greet only your brothers and sisters, what more are you doing than others? Do not even the Gentiles do the same?  Be perfect, therefore, as your heavenly Father is perfect.”

BUT…What if I don’t want to?? Ugh…this is hard!  There really aren’t any loopholes in what Jesus taught.   I struggle with it almost every day.  I understand that things like politics, race, nationality, and even favorite sports teams can create division among us; but I see the message of the gospel calling us to bridge our differences respectfully and charitably.  Love was central to St. Paul’s ministry, more important than even faith itself.  “If I have all faith, so as to remove mountains, but do not have love, I am nothing”.   Christian love doesn’t mean endorsement or affirmation of another’s actions or behavior, but it also doesn’t mean slander, resentment, or celebrating another’s shortcoming.  In his letter to the Corinthians, Paul said, “Love is patient; love is kind; love is not envious or boastful or arrogant or rude. It does not insist on its own way; it is not irritable or resentful;  it does not rejoice in wrongdoing, but rejoices in the truth.  It bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things.”

We are all familiar with that beautiful love poem, yet there are times when it can be quite convicting.   Words of anger, hate, resentment sow seeds of the same.  Look at the “likes” and “shares” all over social media of the human family attacking, demeaning, insulting, and discouraging those they have chosen not to respect (love).  In our baptismal covenant, there are some very powerful vows… 

·       Will you seek and serve Christ in all persons, loving your neighbor as yourself?

·       Will you strive for just and peace among all people, and respect the dignity of every human being?

To which we reply. “I will with God’s help”….

Even then, it’s still not that easy.  What about ‘so-and-so’ that particular human that is hateful, or unkind, or violent, or abusive.  There is no easy answer, yet it remains clear in the Gospel—in fact, within the whole biblical narrative—that God desires us to love one another, without conditions. So maybe that “tough love” is not endorsing, but respecting them as another of God’s creatures.  Maybe it’s not engaging with them or supporting them. And maybe it’s seeking justice by whatever means, without failing to acknowledge that even then, this is a child of God.   Paul said, “nothing can separate us from the love of God”, and if we believe that for ourselves, then we must believe that for all of God’s created human family.  Dr. King was right: hate breeds hate, and even our words can feed those flames.  I pray that not only our country, but all of creation, especially myself, can find a place of love and respect for one another, for therein lies our peace and the Kingdom of God.  As we move toward the valley of Holy Week, and the glory and promise of Easter, let us remember to love and be love.

—The Rev. Jim Welch

St. Patrick’s Episcopal Church, Broken Arrow

It's All Greek to Me

Lent and Advent are the two big penitential seasons in the church year.  Each one provides us with a pause, an opening to look at new vistas.  Penance is a word with root meaning in changing direction, in the way something trends or leans—an opportunity to adjust the direction and the way we live and think about our life.

The Greek word for repent is metanoia; an alteration in the mind, in the intelligence, and in the soul’s communion with God.  We are all familiar with the caterpillars that munch their way through our gardens and countryside foliage, then they pause to form a cocoon and pupate, finally emerging as butterflies that are able to course back into the world lifted by the wind. Poor earthbound grub worms that emerge through metamorphosis, a change in their body type into the butterfly that we view with awe and delight.  Lent can be such a transformational time for us.

But Lent is not just about change, it is also about reduction, a peeling away and removing the impact of life’s negative intrusions of fear and worry. To worry about life is our common temptation.  Jesus pointed to the lilies of the field that bloom for a day and then are gone. They do what their genetic code directs them to do:  they grow, they bloom, they form seeds and then they die.  They are not consumed by cares and worries, but bloom and flourish in God’s time appointed to them in harmony with their created purpose.

In Lent we can peel away the worries and distractions of this world, just as with an ear of corn we peel away the husk, leaf by leaf, then the tangle of silk and nuisance of threads leading everywhere!  We are left with only the rich plump kernels that provide nourishment if we eat them, or kernels that can be planted to grow into an entirely new life once again. Just as Jesus talked about wheat falling into various kinds of soil types—rocky, thin and dry or ultimately loam from which will sprout a greater harvest—so during Lent we have an opportunity to peel away all of the extraneous husks of distractions and to plant the nourishing seeds that bring us into a fuller life of companionship with our Lord Jesus Christ.

One Lenten discipline is to pause at the end of each day and ponder three gifts that God has given to you, that day. It may be the smile of a friend, the kiss of a child, a scrap of music, the call of a cardinal, the sound of waves breaking on the lakeshore, clouds moving across the moon, a flow of intense orange glowing at sunset, the sound of the wind’s fingers coursing through a pine tree, the kind word of a loved one, the politeness of a stranger allowing you into a long line, a beautiful line of poetry, a quote from holy scripture lifting you closer to God’s spirit…

A wealth of small miracles are given to us every day, gifts to enrich our souls.  Yes, God’s miraculous gifts appear each day quietly, if only we can pause to reflect, recognize them, and then give thanks.  Lent is our pause to harvest these kernels of joy, love and wisdom from God to us!  Happy metanoia!

Jim McPhee, School of Spiritual Direction

School of IONA

God is There

This year’s season of Lent is going to be weird.

Don’t get me wrong, the yearly reminder on Ash Wednesday of being put “in the mind of the message of pardon and absolution set forth in the Gospel of our Savior, and of the need which all Christians continually have to renew their repentance and faith,” (BCP 265) has always carried unique weight upon my faith journey. The season of Lent, for me, has always been more about intentionally leaning into the wilderness—often of my own cultivating—that must be travailed in order to live fully into the joy and celebration of Easter. Taking a serious look at the things that have been stumbling blocks in my path, the distractions and shortcomings that have stood between myself and our loving God have always been a wilderness I must admit that I look forward to traversing each Lent.

But this year, it doesn’t feel like I have the luxury of this wilderness to explore, come Ash Wednesday. Because let’s be honest, it’s been a wilderness since last March! A new season of hope, deferred yet still promised, seems silly in light of the Covid pandemic, in the face of so much unfathomable loss. By the time you’re reading, this more than two and a half million people will have died worldwide; millions of jobs have been lost; countless businesses shuttered for good; unspeakable grief and suffering; and an abiding loneliness for so, so many.

We are all in the wilderness, and have been for a long time.

We have been there much like the Israelites in Exodus, all the way through to Joshua—who travailed and waited for the promised hope. Much like the crowds who flocked to the wilderness to hear John’s new preaching, we have been waiting for these promises of hope to be fulfilled. We have lost friends and loved ones, we have faced the reality that so much has changed and continues to change outside of our control. With the rollout of the various vaccines—which hopefully many of you have received—I can’t help but feel as though we are Joshua, or the whole host of Israelites, standing on the banks of the Jordan waiting to enter the promised land. We wait with a profound sense of hope, albeit it mingled with loss; knowing that, like Moses, many in our midst did not get the chance to cross those muddy waters.

How fitting is it then that, as we embark on the season of Lent, the first public act in which we partake includes ashes, an historic symbol of lament. Let us lean into this lament. It is imperative that we focus on what and who we have lost. In so doing, we recognize the important roles and places they once held and continue to hold in our lives. When we lament, we allow ourselves to grieve and then in turn open ourselves to God’s healing presence in our lives. Because even in the face of loss, we acknowledge our loved ones are still, in many ways, with us. Even in our darkest moments, God’s light and love still illumines our path. We are never alone.

As we are still wrapping our minds around what we have lost this past year, may we remain ever focused on how—even in our darkness—God has been with us. It was true in the wilderness, and it is true today. As we prepare to leave this year’s wilderness for the wilderness of Lent, remember God’s promise. God is with us now and has been with us every step of the way. In our loss, God is there. In our grief, God is there. In our fear, God is there. My prayer for us this Lent is that in the midst of the ash, loss, and pain of our current wilderness, that we will take a closer look for the smallest shoots of green, those signs of new life, those signs of God’s presence. They are there when we take the time to see them, even when we may or may not feel like we have the eyes to see them.

The Rev. Jeff Huston
Campus Minister, Oklahoma State University

Be Met Where You Are

I wonder if it's because as Episcopalians we value tradition so much, that a lot of Episcopalians choose the same Lenten devotion year after year?

As for me, even one who values tradition so much, I have always had different Lenten practices each Lent. I take into account what is happening in my life, where are my spirit is parched, and seek to engage in a practice that will slake my thirst.

As we come around to a full year of living in a pandemic lifestyle, you perhaps find yourself like me, overwhelmed, tired, and eager for things to return back to normal.

 At Saint Paul’s, we have shared a booklet titled Lenten Micro Practices, daily practices during the season of Lent that are small, manageable, and deeply meaningful. It has been wonderful to engage with the holiness of Lent while also feeling the weight of the world up on my shoulders.

My prayer for each and every one of you would be that you can accept the invitation to a holy Lent and not be overwhelmed by it. May your Lenten journey serve you in your current circumstance, and in those Lenten practices, may you find God with you.

—The Very Rev. Katie Churchwell

St. Paul’s Cathedral, OKC

Holy Expectation

Perhaps we have been in Lent since about March 15th, 2020.   Perhaps this is really Advent until this pandemic, and recession, and racism realization, and political posturing is swallowed up by the King who comes to reconcile all things and heal all things.  Whatever it is, we are here.

When I first became an Episcopalian in 1976—a graduate student and engaged to be married—I took much joy in changing my diet slightly, eliminating carbonated beverages and buttermilk chess pie for forty days.  Really, it was fun.  This may have been because the whole Lenten Discipline routine and its Anglican spirituality was brand new to me.  There is nothing wrong with fasting from these two food groups and reveling in the discipline.

I am now committed to plant-based food and I haven’t had carbonated beverages for six years. I am an enthusiastic vegan and a snob about quality coffee and tea.  I will not guilt you about colas or buttermilk, chess pie or nasty coffee.  However, I wonder how I may share Lent with you.

The saints before now have created a very good Lent by their choices of Lenten scripture readings and prayers.  They have lived and died in pandemics, wars, extreme poverty, and dictatorships. They have shown us how to focus on our Savior, Jesus, and to pray in his name.  This year I will be more intentional about seeking the kingdom day by day in scripture and prayer.  I will expect Resurrection.  I will also expect the coming of the Holy Spirit to salt my heart, to feed the flame already there in my adoption as God’s child.  I will try, with God’s help, to not be a glutton nor a snob.

May peace be with you this day, and with those you love, and with those for whom you pray.

Happy Lent!

—The Rev. James Blagg,

St. John’s Episcopal Church, Durant

This is a Time

“They devoted themselves to the apostles’ teaching and fellowship,

to the breaking of bread and the prayers.”

-Acts 2:42 NRSV

I grew up in a medium size Episcopal parish with families, children, youth, grandparents, and parents.  We were the only Episcopal church in a southern community of schools and churches.  Wednesday night was “church night” in our town; while other churches held services on Wednesdays, it seemed that all we had in my Episcopal church was choir practice, except for one time of year.  In Lent, we had a Wednesday night service preceded by a covered dish dinner. 

I loved Lent because of those Wednesday nights. I knew we were supposed to give up something for Lent (usually chocolate), but we had those wonderful covered dish dinners.  Lent is a time of fasting but as a child, it seemed like a celebration.  I didn’t understand it as I do now, but what I was experiencing was the beauty of the gathered community of believers devoting themselves to the apostles’ teaching and fellowship as in the early church.  The church grew in that crucible of meeting together in homes, listening to the apostle’s teaching, experiencing fellowship, and breaking bread together.

We are entering a second Lent in the pandemic when we are called upon to fast from our covered dish dinners, coffee hours, and pancake suppers.  This is a call we answer out of love for our community; however, it should be more than a time of waiting until we can once again share a meal in person.  Fasting is not just about giving up something like that chocolate I gave up as a child; it should also be about taking up another practice.  In this case, why not take up a practice that strengthens the fraying ties of community when we are separated.

We are faithful in praying for those who are sick, who have died, and are grieving, as we should.   But what about those who have not asked for our prayers?  This is a time to pray for those we may only see at coffee hour, but who make up our community: We should pray that the peace of God, the love of Jesus, and the fellowship of the Holy Spirit will fill them to overflowing, bring comfort in loneliness, and bind us together in love.  This is a time to strengthen the bonds of love in our community in prayer till we can once again break bread together.

—The Rev. Gloria Walters

St. Luke’s, Idabel; St. Mark’s, Hugo

Centering with Jesus

“The inner criterion of whether or not Christian theology

is Christian lies in the crucified Christ . . . we come back to Luther’s lapidary statement,

the cross is the test of everything.”

—Jürgen Moltmann, The Crucified God

I have read that the Passion stories take up a third to a quarter of each gospel; in other words, they are central to the story of Jesus.

The central claim Christians make is that Christ was crucified and raised from the dead. We rather like Easter; it is the crucifixion with which we struggle. Saint Paul understood this well as he acknowledged that ‘the cross is foolishness to the Greeks and a scandal to the Jews.’ (1 Cor 1:23) I come across Christians who dislike the notion of Christ dying for us and want to remove the language of atonement—and yet, there it is front and center in the scriptures. So how do we understand the atonement?

Growing up in Oklahoma, the wrath and anger of God was a common metaphor. God the Father was presented not as the loving Father we find in the Prodigal Son, but as a mean and fearful figure from whom we are ‘saved’ because Jesus is punished in our place. These types of approaches to the atonement place the Father and the Son in competition against each other, working in opposition to one another. The Father doesn’t punish the Son; the Son is obedient, even unto death. (Phil 2:8) In the Eastern tradition, Jesus on the cross is not displayed as suffering like the crucifixes that are common in the western tradition. I think both images have value, but it is helpful for me to remember that the crucifixion is Jesus’ enthronement as the King of Kings.

But why did Jesus need to die? In creation, it was intended for God and human beings to live in harmony with one another forever. One beautiful image in Genesis is God coming to the garden on a cool evening to walk hand and hand with us. Saint Paul writes in Romans 5 that ‘death came into the world through sin, the result of our disobedience is that we would die.’ 

Human beings who—created to be with God for eternity—chose death over life. We wanted freedom and independence from our creator. In the Book of Wisdom, we read, “God did not make death, and he does not delight in the death of the living.” An example of this comes directly from Jesus when, confronted with the death of his friend Lazarus, weeps at his grave.

So, God in Jesus Christ chooses death so we might live. He takes on that which God did not create, death so that death can be defeated. In St. John Chrysostom’s sermon for Holy Saturday, he says, “Truly he goes to seek out our first parent like a lost sheep; he wishes to visit those who sit in darkness and in the shadow of death. He goes to free the prisoner Adam and his fellow-prisoner Eve from their pains, he who is God, and Adam's son. And grasping his hand he raises him up, saying: ‘Awake, O sleeper, and arise from the dead, and Christ shall give you light.”

Chrysostom concludes this sermon at the Easter Vigil when the light of Christ is lit and we are reminded that darkness, nor death, nor sin could overpower God. 

Hell took a body, and discovered God.

It took earth, and encountered Heaven.

It took what it saw, and was overcome by what it did not see.

O death, where is thy sting?

O Hell, where is thy victory?

Christ is Risen, and you, o death, are annihilated!

Christ is Risen, and the evil ones are cast down!

Christ is Risen, and the angels rejoice!

Christ is Risen, and life is liberated!

Christ is Risen, and the tomb is emptied of its dead;

for Christ having risen from the dead,

is become the first-fruits of those who have fallen asleep. 

—The Rev. Dr. Everett C. Lees 

Christ Church, Tulsa

Follow the Plan

A Lenten Discipline—every year it is a struggle to pick something that will help me grow in either humility, grow closer to Jesus, or both.  Then comes the challenge of following it to the end as my resolve often grows thin around week four. I have had two pieces of advice that have come to me through the years.  This advice was not related to Lent, but to life, and it tumbles through my brain as I turn toward Lent this year.

1.     Try something new

2.     Stick with the plan

I wonder, if just maybe it is not so much what I do, as long as the intention is to grow closer to God AND that I DO it.

What if there is some surprise waiting for me, if I step outside the usual. (Whew, that feels a little uncomfortable!) I am currently sitting in a new phase of my life, newly retired.  I am on an uncharted road.  Daily routine……well there isn’t one quite yet.  I set aside time for God each morning, and I eat breakfast. The rest has activities, chores, and projects, but does not have a routine. It is a time of wandering and meandering, and discovering.

One of my favorite prayers was written by Thomas Merton.

My Lord God, I have no idea where I am going.

I do not see the road ahead of me.

I cannot know for certain where it will end.

Nor do I really know myself,

and the fact that I think I am following your will

does not mean that I am actually doing so.

But I believe that the desire to please you

does in fact please you.

And I hope I have that desire in all that I am doing.

I hope that I will never do anything apart from that desire.

And I know that, if I do this,

You will lead me by the right road,

though I may know nothing about it.

Therefore I will trust you always

though I may seem to be lost

and in the shadow of death.

I will not fear, for you are ever with me,

and you will never leave me to face my perils alone.

My Lenten Discipline this year: walk……walk a road, any road, an unknown road, allow myself to be a little lost.  Pray Merton’s prayer before I go and then no music or podcast for the journey.  Be attentive to what I am seeing and what I notice.  Collect those thoughts of the journey, whatever they may be and give thanks for them. It fits my life right now.  God speaks into each of our lives, right where we are if we but create moments where we can allow ourselves to hear.  This is my story, what is yours?

—The Rev. Elizabeth Davis

Rosary-Colored Glasses

Lent has always been a good opportunity for me to do a spiritual check-up.  Just like taking the car to the mechanic, I need to take a look under the hood and find out what spiritual practices are working well, and what needs a tune-up.  Of course, there are staples that keep me going, like the Daily Office—Morning Prayer sets the tone for my day.  On Mondays I spend an hour with other preachers as we focus on the upcoming Gospel, through Lectio Divina.  As I spend time with my intercessory prayer daily list, I often find the Holy Spirit has led me down paths of prayers for others that I didn’t even know I’d be praying for.  It’s sort of the spiritual equivalent of looking up a YouTube video on dishwasher repair and, twenty minutes later, having no idea why I’m watching videos of dogs skateboarding!

I worry about getting too comfortable with my practices.  Indeed, a spiritual director told me that when prayer became too normative and comfortable, perhaps it’s time to change or add a practice.  The point isn’t to make it so difficult that it’s not obtainable; but to find something that’s just difficult enough to shake things up.  So, taking that advice, a few months ago I began praying the Rosary.

My first real exposure to the Rosary happened a few months prior during a stay at a Jesuit retreat center.  Each morning, one of the brothers led the retreat group in a Rosary prayer.  I have to admit that the experience was underwhelming to me.  I felt that reciting the same ‘Hail Mary’ prayer was rote and gave me little inspiration.  In fact, it had the opposite effect of all other positive experiences of the retreat.  I found myself dreading the twenty minutes I spent with it.  Once I returned home, I placed the Rosary beads I’d been given into a desk drawer—never to be looked at, again.

It was after the conversation with the spiritual director that I decided to give praying the Rosary another try.  I would make it a weekly practice; and if there was no change after a month, I would give it up in lieu of trying something else. What I found—and it took a few times to get there—was that it opened me up to a deeper sense of prayer.  The ‘Hail Mary’ prayers became a rhythm almost like breathing, and with each breath/prayer, I stopped focusing on it, and my mind began to ponder the specific Holy Mystery being prayed on that decade (a set of ten beads).  The experience was powerful.  I began using the Rosary to contemplate scripture readings and let myself dive deeper into those as I prayed.  As I look back on it, I feel that the initial negative experience I had at the retreat center was likely because I was resistant to trying something new.  As I gave myself into it later, and really prayed it the way it was intended, the experience was completely different.

A few months later, I introduced the Rosary over a four-week session to my church.  The first week was spent as an introduction to explain what a Rosary was: how we would say the prayers and walking the participants through the Joyful Mysteries—The Annunciation to Mary; the Visitation of Mary; the Nativity of Our Lord; the Presentation of Jesus in the Temple; and the Finding of Jesus in the Temple.  It felt like it went well, and the comments I received were positive.  As with many things, it’s the comments on the back side that are the surprising ones.   

“Why are we praying to Mary instead of Jesus?”  That’s probably the most-asked question when I speak to someone about the Rosary, to which I would answer, “You can absolutely pray to Jesus!”  But then I follow that with, “Have you ever asked another member of the church to pray for you?  If that’s the case, why would we not also ask one of the saints, especially one who may have undergone the same problem that you’re facing, to intercede on your behalf with prayer as well?”  That’s usually an ‘aha’ moment for people, and suddenly the Communion of Saints begins to be seen in a new light.  And, if we’re willing to ask a saint to intercede with prayers on our behalf, would we not ask for the person who was the closest to our Lord to pray on our behalf as well?  When they see it in this light, a lot of the former prejudice they’ve been taught about intercessory prayer of the saints begins to peel away.

As we enter into Lent this year, my challenge will be to make this a daily practice.  Spending fifteen to twenty minutes each day with this particular prayer is just enough to nudge me towards something achievable, yet something that will require effort.  As I’ve shared this, I’ve challenged others that they could do it, too, in more bite-sized pieces.  If they want to get their feet wet, just pray a decade at a time instead of all five at once—spread it throughout the day.  It’s like having a chapel in your pocket; you can pull out the rosary at work, on the bus, or while having your morning coffee.  They can also pray it in different ways.  They can contemplate the Holy Mysteries, they can think about a portion of scripture they just read, or they can just open themselves to pray, sensing God’s voice to them.   That’s why discovering the Rosary is like the ocean.  For one person it could be walking in the shallows along the beach; for another, it could be deep-sea diving off a coral reef.  Everyone can fully enjoy the same ocean while playing at different levels.  And this is true with the Rosary.

—The Rev. Dion Crider

Church of the Resurrection, OKC

A Lenten Story

When the days of winter begin to show the promises of spring, my spirit will often have moments of great sadness. I know that Lent is near. Although it will be hard, even causing me great grief, the time is here for me to open my heart again, to listen to the stories of Jesus making his journey to save us, his beloved people. From the moment the ashes are so lovingly pressed upon my forehead to the shadow of the cross on Good Friday, I am called to participate in His journey. I will try to keep up as I tag along behind Jesus. His dusty feet will take me through the wilderness, the trials, the cross, and lastly the tomb where I will rejoice in the resurrection.

My sadness and grief that I so easily feel in Lent have history in my memories of the year 1984. Just three weeks after Ash Wednesday, on a cold and dreary day in March, the unimaginable happened to me when very unexpectedly my father died. As with most any new loss, I felt confusion, shock, and inconsolable sadness which made me question if my world would ever be the same again. My childhood priest had been the one to call me with the unreal news; and soon after we were on a five-hour drive to my parents’ home.  In my vulnerable and quite wounded self on that long ride, I prayed to God for a sign, a real and significant sign that we would be ‘okay’, that everything in my world would indeed be alright. I prayed for comfort, peace and then forgiveness for feeling so selfish. After all we were in the middle of Lent, already a time of desolation and darkness as Jesus neared His time on the cross. I felt disappointment in myself for only focusing on the “why now, why us, why me” questions. I needed a sign of new life, a sign that would give me hope to dispel the darkness and grief.

God is so mighty! He heard the prayers of this young woman in distress and he sent the signs. A sign as sure as the rainbow after the rain, it came in the words of a favorite song from my beloved hymnal and in the strength of the funeral prayers. The sign came in the skies which had been dark, cloudy, and rainy in the early part of my father’s funeral day, and miraculously parted to show the sun with the most brilliant and beautiful rays stretching upward into the heavens. They appeared to me as witness of hope, life, and resurrection as I followed my father’s procession from the church.  God’s signs were kind, merciful and generous to the healing and comforting of my soul. This cry to God and his answer changed me, it encouraged and strengthened me. My Lenten journey became a time spent not only in the wilderness where renewed life is hoped for, but a place for discovering the miracle and power of the resurrection.

Last year during Lent, as with the entire world, I experienced another time of great sadness and uncertainty—knowing my world and ministry would never again be the same. Each morning I entered my workplace where the virus was being fought, wondering if I would stay well enough to return the next day. There were questions asked by my patients’ frightened loved ones that I could not answer and a daily prayer list that grew exponentially. The days were likened to a war zone where love, kindness and grace were needed. In the trenches, my soul—as during the loss of my father—was again seeking the signs, pleading with God for healing and protection. The sign I found was the tender touch of Jesus embracing every moment, despite the Lenten reminder of His own journey of brokenness.

I know this Lent I will still experience some sadness as Jesus travels through the wilderness. I know I must intentionally slow down so that I can fully listen as my soul is called to renewal, rededication, to be a light and to give generously. Each morning I will sing a line from the hymn “Be thou my vision” and pray more often during the day. I will watch, looking for those brilliant rays of sunlight reaching upwards to the heavens and remember the journey, the journey of Christ and my own. I will persevere, seeking ways to keep up with Jesus on the journey, which my faith keeps me believing will help my wounded soul overcome the sadness and grief. The signs of hope, of life, and of miracles will be there, just as I have found in each Lenten journey since 1984.

“Be thou my vision, O Lord of my heart…”

—Debbie Butcher

St. Paul’s Cathedral, Oklahoma City

Letters…With Stamps.

Many, many years ago—even before seminary—my Lenten vow was to write one letter each day to someone who had been important to me during any time in my life. This was not a text or an email, but a real letter, with a stamp. The letter was not a thank you; rather a more-chatty “how are you”— a connection to our relationship. It was exhausting! And honestly, I have not been much of a letter writer since then. Even so, it was the most meaningful Lenten practice I have undertaken.

For me the most poignant biblical scripture comes from Jesus’s fourth word from the cross: My God, my God, why have you forsaken me? Since the crucifixion, Christians have wrestled with the duality of Christ the human and Christ the divine. Which is he? How do I relate to each, or to both? These words from the cross show our Lord’s faith in God the Father, as well as his very human nature. Through these words, we see clearly, that Jesus the Christ, truly and painfully recognizes our pain, our troubles, our passion.

The year 2021

My Lenten practices have never come close to asceticism. This year will be no different. After nearly a year of pandemic isolation, some people are deeply lonely. This year, harkening back to the earlier letter-writing Lenten practice, I will be sending cards and notes to those who could use a friendly hello or encouragement. These will not be long letters, but they will carry a stamp.

 A prayer addition

A few weeks ago, I began adding the 10 Commandments to my nightly prayer practice of reciting the Apostle’s Creed and the Lord’s Prayer. By remembering the commandments each night, I find myself more mindful of my thoughts and actions during the day. I will continue this practice during Lent, adding the question, “What does this commandment mean to my ministry, as well as my daily life, at this time?”

John O’Donohue

John O’Donohue was an Irish theologian, writer, and poet who captures the divine within the natural world. He leads readers into a realm of imagination that lifts us away from a rigid, practical theology that we often come to practice, despite our heart’s (God’s) desire. My favorite among his books is,  Beauty—rediscovering the true sources of compassion, serenity, and hope. This year I will be reading one of O’Donohue’s poetry collections called Conamara Blues as part of my Lenten readings. Conamara is a region of Ireland where O’Donohue grew up and which shaped much of his personal, theological, and poetic work.

—The Rev. Dr. Dawn Enderwood

St. Michael’s Episcopal Church, Norman

Discipleship in Discipline

When it comes to Lenten disciplines, I have always been a proponent of taking a pretty generous approach to what constitutes an ‘appropriate’ practice. During my years as a school chaplain, I encouraged the students and teachers to think not only of something they might give up, but to also consider if there was perhaps something that they wanted to take on. In part, this was because I hoped that all of us might look beyond the usual giving up of sweets or a favorite beverage, and instead take some time to reflect on what might help us to draw closer to Jesus. (Not that praying for the strength to resist that Hershey bar isn’t a spiritual moment.)

But so often, the setting aside of a particular food, or game, or drink seemed to become an end in itself—the point was to ‘make it’—to succeed at avoiding something enjoyable for a specific period of time, and then to be either proud or regretful (and relieved) when Easter arrived. Of course, it is possible to turn acts of self-denial into a greater reliance on God and to use the time or the money that we have saved to put towards some good work. Still, almost certainly because of my fairly competitive nature, it is hard for me not to look upon giving up something for Lent as a contest.  

I’ll admit that the year I gave up tea for Lent was an eye-opener. The good thing about it was that since I drink tea every morning and often at lunch as well, I had to turn my thoughts toward keeping that discipline regularly; in so doing, I would remember why I was doing it, and so it served as an occasion for prayer and reflection. I also found myself having a greater appreciation for the blessing of hot water, lovely mugs, and a variety of delicious tea, promising not to take that for granted when I once again was enjoying them. But at the same time, it did finally become more a point of pride—and of counting the days until it was over—than an opportunity for spiritual growth.

So now I try to start with a different approach. Instead of looking just at what I might need to set aside—and there are lots of good possibilities there—I also look for what I need to add to my day that will help me keep my eyes on Jesus. One tool that I find useful for this is the invitation to keep a holy Lent that is found in the Ash Wednesday liturgy in the Book of Common Prayer (p. 265). It concludes with this:

I invite you therefore, in the name of the Church, to the observance of a holy Lent, by self-examination and repentance; by prayer, fasting, and self-denial; and by reading and meditating on God’s holy Word.

Looking at that list of spiritual practices reminds me that the point is not to set a goal for myself of avoiding this food, or finishing that devotional book, or doing a certain number of good works during Lent. Even though all of those might be valuable practices, it can become too easy for them to also be boxes on my to-do list that I can check off. What I need most is to take the time and the space necessary to do the hard work of “self-examination and repentance” and to ask for God’s grace and presence in my life.

So, my plan is to take seriously the call to a holy Lent—one marked by those spiritual practices that the prayer book calls us to. I am not going to choose ‘a discipline’, but rather plan to immerse myself in “prayer, fasting, and self-denial, and …God’s holy Word.” With God’s help, I want this Lent to make me more humble, more reliant on God, and more in tune with God’s call on my life.

—The Rev. Dana Orwig

St. John’s, OKC

Some Spiritual Practices

I learned from Morton Kelsey, amplified by Abbot David Geraets of the Pecos Benedictine monastery, to keep a journal. Kelsey taught us to use a four-colored pen: black for everyday concerns; blue for dreams you record upon waking, and work you do with them; green for God events and revelatory prayer times, and your responses; and red for people who are “difficult.” That way, over time if there is too much black ink, you have no inner life; if it’s all blue, you’re too much into dreams; if it’s all green, you’re probably too “spiritual” for any good; and too much red, you’re in trouble! Of course, if there is no green, you are also in trouble, especially if you’re a clergy person.  David would not continue in spiritual direction with anyone who wouldn’t take the trouble to do inner work with a journal.

One practice, remaining cutting edge for me, came from Sister Miriam at Pecos, in her talk The Healing of the Feminine, 1981. She discussed the question of people she had trouble with, in the Benedictine community of celibate men and women. The community was sacramental, Pentecostal by mission, and integrated Jungian psychology and spiritual direction into the mix. For Miriam, some community members were recorded in red in her journal. Sometimes repeated passages in red!

She had a fun Boston accent, and was quite winsome in confessing that for various community members, she found herself saying: I hate him! (Relevant topic?)  By the feminine, she meant, along with David, being in relationship with Jesus, beyond all the   daily community liturgy and work, which she said she did robotically for a long time, with no real life. (Clergy occupational hazard? David tagged it as accidia. See E. Underhill, Concerning the Inner Life, and Acbp. Michael Ramsey, The Christian Priest Today.)  Attending to the heart, the soul, the inner life, and Jesus’ presence there.  She told of a young woman who was habitually angry, and her father taking her out to the country, leaving her there, telling her: Find your soul!  Ramsey spoke of “souls starved by activism.” (in The Charismatic Christ)

Miriam took dreams (often disturbing) and her image of certain personalities, into private times of sitting with Jesus, and waited and watched for His wisdom and answers.

For a painful or disliked person, she sat and waited until Jesus gave her a name, sometimes an image, for the person.  She didn’t use the term, but the Tibetan version is Tonglen, transformation of energy. With the “spiritual name” of the person, she received a change of heart, seeing him/her differently going forward, with a new emotional chord. I have done this: you feel the shift, a release, with joy and/or tears. It is often difficult. It brings a God-given “touchstone” for that person, i.e., emotionally experiencing them from God’s point of view. Healing. II Cor. 5:16-17.

(There is also the prayer of asking Him to show you His image of you . . . )

40 years ago!  I practice it, I confess, when it is time again…with important, often life-changing results. Lenten inner work.

—The Rev. Dr. Clyde Glandon

Tulsa

Returning to the Station

One Lenten practice that I have found myself returning to year after year as part of how I engage the season is walking with—and praying through—the Stations of the Cross.  Typically, this has been within a congregation setting with a visual setup for each station, and a booklet with readings and prayers for each station, as well.  By joining together with others as we walk thru the Stations marking Jesus’ journey to the Cross and Tomb, it seems to help me slow down and quiet the worldly pushes and pulls that can drown out the still small voice of God I need to hear.  Here are a few observations that have been impactful to me over the years in the midst of this practice.

The movement has been meaningful to me.  It is typically not that far, the journey from one station to the next station, and it is not rushed or frantic.  Involving the physical nature of our humanity has become an important piece of the prayer for me.  Different sights and perspectives come into play, shadows are cast at different angles as we progress through the Stations—with both words and our physical presence.  There is a journey that is present, as well as a remembering of places and times past, and an expectation of those to come.

Being part of a group has been important.  Throughout the years, there have been different groups of folks at different places; and there’s been blessings from them all.  Hearing different voices doing the readings and prayers often touches my soul: Young voices, steady and sure voices, voices cracking with the weight of the meaning of the words they are speaking.  There has been a reminder for me of how much we need all of the Kingdom of God to truly be the Kingdom of God.  Some of those voices I will never hear again—except in my soul—but they live there now, because of what we have shared.

I have been astonished at which stations and moments have stood out to me.  Sure, as Jesus is nailed to the Cross or as He dies, those moments are powerful and emotional.  But I’ve also noticed that, throughout the years, and even within the weeks of a particular Lenten season, different points in the stations will grab hold of my life where it is right then. 

Jesus falling…three times. 

The women of Jerusalem wailing. 

A tender moment with Mom and a Friend. 

Those events that occurred over two thousand years ago seem to live in my life, as well.  I have often begun the stations thinking I knew which one would stand out to me on that time through, and I have nearly always been surprised when a different station—or even just a phrase or word—pierced my heart like an arrow.  I have come to trust that the moments will be there, even when I am not looking for them.

One last observation of this practice throughout the years is that the repetition has been a blessing.  Throughout most Lenten seasons, I have practiced the Stations of the Cross once a week; the same stations and, for the most part, the same words.  Some phrases have been repeated again and again, station to station, week to week, year to year.  I have needed that repetition.  I have needed the comfort of returning to prayers that have been prayed not just a time or two before, but for decades.  I did not know that when I began this practice, and the value has not always been clear, but I have absolutely needed it.

The journey through the Stations of the Cross has been a cherished and valuable Lenten practice for me.  It has calmed me, reassured me, challenged me, broken me, and loved me.  I am thankful for the gift this practice has been in my life.

—The Rev. Bryan Beard

Church of the Holy Cross, Owasso

Mercy

One of the first words we encounter during the Season of Lent is the word, ‘mercy’.  Our Liturgy begins, “Bless the Lord who forgives all our sins. His mercy endures forever.”  “Lord have mercy,” is in so many Lenten responses. We are inundated with the appeal to God’s mercy, and rightly so. Lent, after all, is a penitential season.

A season of the Church set aside for penitence is a very good thing. It’s not—as often seems the case—a time to think about how bad one is, or has been. We jump too quickly to those pejoratives about ourselves. More the case, it is a time to recognize that something is wrong. Something within us is just not right; we are not whole. It is a time to take a good look at our lives, our actions (or lack thereof), and our attitudes—especially towards others. It is a time to acknowledge that we are in need of help to change that which hinders us from moving forward in our journey to, and with, God. It is a time to ask, or even to plead with, God for that help…depending on the intensity we feel the need for this change. This is where our understanding of mercy becomes important. 

Our use of the word ‘mercy’ is legalistic. Mercy is that which is shown to the guilty who, by right, should be punished and yet are allowed to escape punishment altogether, or have it softened considerably from what one should expect. This understanding of mercy calls to mind the image of a monarch or judge who is expected to impose the harshest punishment for a crime or offense, but in a particular instance, holds back retribution and unexpectedly allows the offender to return to their normal life. Perhaps, as we use this word in the context of our relationship with God—our loving Parent, the very Source of our being—we may want to explore a different image. 

Instead of God being the dreaded Oriental Ruler who brings calamity upon us for our sins, let’s just go ahead and believe Jesus when he calls God ‘Abba’ (perhaps as familiar as ‘daddy’). Mercy is a word that then changes in character from our normal usage. Mercy now emphasizes its meaning as compassion. The action of this is a beautiful English word to be found in our Book of Common Prayer–lovingkindness. God’s mercy is expressed to us as lovingkindness; it is a healing balm to our wounded-ness, it is restoration to our brokenness. The father’s response to the prodigal son’s return is a vivid example of how Jesus relates God’s mercy. This lovingkindness is abundantly available to us, but like the prodigal son in Jesus’ story, we must at least come to the understanding of our need for it.

Lent is a wonderful opportunity provided by the Church for each of us to explore our own spiritual situation. We are to do so honestly, but without self-condemnation. We are to do so prayerfully and without excuses. We are to be open to God and open with ourselves. In that context, our hearts may very well recall the final two versicles and responses of Suffrage B in Morning Prayer:

Lord, show us your love and mercy;

For we put our trust in you.

In you, Lord, is our hope;

And we shall never hope in vain.

Indeed, we never hope in vain. We know that God’s mercy, expressed as lovingkindness, is ever available to those who perceive their need and are ready to receive. This Lent, may you perceive the need, ask and receive.

—The Rev. Bill Holly

Chaplain to Retired Clergy, Tulsa

The Great Commandments

Lent is all about time in the wilderness. Jesus is not only with us in our wilderness, he has gone through it, and is there to show us the way.  What is that way?  As Bishop Curry says, the way is to “Love God. Love your neighbor. And, while you’re at it love yourself.” What more could I need to remember while I am out here in the wilderness? I do not have to do everything. I do not have to give up caffeine and sugar and flour to have a Holy Lent. I do not have to take on a load of things to have a Holy Lent. What do I need to do? I need to love God—daily and completely.

Thankfully, I have a relationship with God and I already love God. I rely on God and I rest in God’s love for me. The awesome thing about our love is that God is always present for me, always listens to me and always wants what is best for me. How could anything be better than that? I do not always understand God’s ways. I am not meant to. However, God always listens to my cares and concerns. God realizes I am a work in progress and does not give up on me. Now, in my practice of loving God I could add something to my daily rituals that would impact our relationship. It could be a special prayer I say daily or a special intention for which I pray. That is a good start for my wilderness journey. I am working on my relationship with God.

Now, on to what I can do for my neighbor? Again, it does not have to be a big thing. Well, St. Michael’s collects Styrofoam for recycling. I can gather up my Styrofoam and take it to the church. That is definitely helping the world. I can make sure I wear my mask if I go out and make sure to maintain an appropriate distance from others; these are little things, but they are important and help me to respect the dignity of other human beings. Isn’t that what loving your neighbor is all about? I pray that as Jesus travels with me on this journey that he shows me more ways and times I can love my neighbor.

And, finally, while I’m at it, I will work on loving myself.  This, to be honest, used to be the hardest for me to do but it is getting better. Accepting God’s love for me helps me to accept that I am love-able and should be loved. So, to love myself I am going to be caring and compassionate to myself along this journey. This past year has been difficult for all of us, and a little compassion goes a long way to making things better everywhere. That is how I am going to travel through my Lenten journey this year—with Jesus to show me the way, infused with love. I pray that God is with you during your Lenten journey and all that you are and do.

The Rev. Ann Murray

St. Michael’s and All Angels, Norman

Fasting from Lent?

Recently, I’ve heard several different people asking an interesting question about Lent in this time of pandemic: do we need it this year more or less than usual?

Some say less, because so much of this COVID season has felt like a kind of Lent, a time of deprivation from many things that we hold dear. C.S. Lewis wrote in the Narnia Chronicles about a trying time that was “always winter and never Christmas.” Often, this past year, it has seemed like it was always Lent and never Easter.

It may well feel to many of us as if every day since last March has been Lent, and that therefore nothing more Lenten is required or even beneficial. I’m reminded of the day when, as a young and inexperienced priest, I visited a frail parishioner in her 90’s in a senior care center. What, I asked her, would she be giving up or taking on to keep Lent this year? “My dear,” she replied, “when you get to my age, every day is Lent.”

Everyone will answer the question about our need for Lent differently. As for me, I need Lent more than ever this year. Why? Because this ancient practice gives me a pilgrim’s way, a set of practices with which to cope with my pandemic experience, and all of the other stresses of this strange year. Left to my own devices, I’m too tempted to sink into gloom, or overdo unhealthy comforts (I’m looking at you, Girl Scout cookies!). I’m likely to pull inward, into self-pity.

But Lent reminds me that I cannot be a disciple without discipline. Plagues have always been a regular part of human experience, and yet the Church has carried on with our seasons and our holy habits, even the penitential ones. Indeed, in such times, the penitence usually increased. For me, prayer, fasting, and almsgiving (helping the poor) are the vaccine against my selfishness. They turn my attention outward, to God and my neighbor, and they remind me of my need to repent, and to be grateful for all that God has given me.

In recent years, it’s become fashionable to adapt the traditional Lenten practices, particularly fasting. And so, many people fast in Lent from producing excess carbon by being more environmentally aware, or from excess possessions by cleaning out their closets, or they fast from social media, and so on.

All of this can be good and useful (though reflecting, at times, a certain privilege). But I find myself more and more drawn to the traditional—some would say old-fashioned—Lenten practices: adding more prayer into my routine, making my confession, doing something tangible to help the vulnerable, and keeping an actual fast from food (no meat especially on Fridays, no sweets except on Sundays, and eating much less on certain days, particularly Ash Wednesday and Good Friday).

Throughout this pandemic, I’ve been encouraging everyone who asks my opinion to do whatever they need to, in order to get through it safely in body, mind, and spirit. That certainly applies for Lent this year. God will love us, whatever we do or don’t do for Lent, and we will arrive at Easter, and God’s welcome promise of forgiveness and resurrection, fulfilled in Jesus Christ.

But for me, the traditional Lenten practices bring an austere but sturdy comfort. Self-emptying is the pre-requisite for God filling my heart, and taking up the Cross is the necessary act before I can feel the strength of the angels bearing the load.  

—The Rt. Rev. Poulson Reed

Sixth Bishop of the Episcopal Diocese of Oklahoma